Day 2
I
It had been too long a night.
For General Casey Aiza his restlessness was now searing into something more tangible, a solid force he could finally apply.
Still, it was bittersweet in a way. Since he was sixteen, Casey had been serving with the full might of his will, and lost count of the battles he had fought in. From the early days putting down the Rouge States in The Crown, to more recently preventing an insurrection against the Regents. It was all a whirling blur; a cyclone going around and around. Yet, not once had his name ever come from the lips of a Regent, to be sang in honour and ordained with a title.
Next to General Aedion Teague, he was the most experienced solider present. Yet it was General Bronagh Puga who would take command should anything happen to their commander.
Not that either of them would be at the front of this morning’s attack. It would be him, and his men and women. The lighthouse fort would be over run, its garrison killed – maybe some of the officers captured for ransoming.
Another battle from which his name would be hidden behind General Aedion Teague’s. If the Gods were so set on holy recompense, then perhaps they would finally raise his name.
As the sun rolled over the camp from the east, illuminating the westerly pines, Casey couldn’t help but feel something was mocking him. These great trunks shone yet were as dead as the siege equipment his soldiers needed. They couldn’t build anything more – Gods, those pines didn’t even have the solidity for a ladder.
Around Casey his army mustered, with the scent of smoke from campfires. As cold as it was, it was nothing compared to his own home. But the air was bitter, as every breath carried with it the tang of salt – catching and clinging to the back of his nose and throat. And the thickness of it. Even shorter breaths seemed to fill is lungs to capacity.
Casey supposed he should get used to it. Gods only knew how long he would be stationed here.
Moving beyond the sergeants howling invective at their charges, Casey wandered across to his crossbowers. A small force, but lethal and devious. Every solider was on their feet, checking over weapons and bolts. Their armour differed from that the other Men-at-Arms, with smaller, layered plates for swifter movement as they advanced, stopped, and took aim. Rich purple and white linen tunics and jambons sat beneath the armour, material jutting through here and there. Each soldier had a tall, rectangular shield, curved to help deflect projectiles. A deployable stand would allow the shield to stand unaided in front of the crossbower as they used it for cover.
“A good a blessed morning to you general,” Lieutenant Odhran Cannon spoke, watching the general approaching with his small predatory eyes.
“We’ll see about that, Odhran,” Casey replied with a sour grin, taking the man’s hand in a solid grip. “We ready to slay some Maytoni!?” He howled across the ranks, the eagerness in his voice breaking through.
Cries of adulation returned, and crossbows were thrust into the air.
“Been ready since last night. I’m telling you; you should have let us move as close as we could to the fort under dark – take a few easy shots.” Odhran hefted his exquisite crossbow; the limbs had been sculpted into the shape of two arching claws, resembling the singular foot claws of the ancient avian beast many Xellcarrians used to – and some still did – revile as daemons. Running down either side of the crossbow’s riser were fangs taken from the same species, reclaimed from dead animals, rather than hunted of course. And a few of the beasts’ feathers dangled from the stock in decoration, violet and blue sheens rolling into one and other. The string had been made from their repurposed tendons and lent uncanny speed and accuracy to the bolt.
Members of this tribe, Casey’s tribe, had been known to steal and reclaim objects of their old Gods from those whose ancestors had considered hunting them a form of exorcism. In the present, owner ship of such materials was illegal for those not of these tribes, and so the majority had been restored to those tribes who previous worshiped the beasts.
Many of their weapons and attire – Casey included – held, or where made from the bones, scales, feathers, and other items from their fallen Gods. In the same way all modern Xellcarrians gave continued flight to their Gods; by attaching griffin feathers to their arrows, members of this older tribe utilised the reclaimed materials, once trophies, of their dead Gods to continue their need to shed blood and exercise their ferocity.
Casey’s personal weapons were made from the materials of these divine animals. His war axe consisted of the upper jaw of a larger daemosaur, its ferocious fangs jutting out, to be brought down like a hammer strike – in the same way the beast attacked its prey.
“And when they responded with volleys of arrows to blanket the field, then what? Their arrows can bore through our shields.”
Odhran didn’t seem convinced. “I hoping to put down a Summiteer. I want to see the look of shock and disgust when they see a crossbow bolt has pierced their rotten heart. You know they see the crossbow as fool’s weapon? Like we’re not good enough, or worthy enough to use a bow.”
“Crossbows, black powder weapons… Anything that isn’t a bow I suppose.”
“Anything that isn’t a bow,” Odhran repeated. “I remember a Summiteer once, training the archers. Looked at us, with our crossbows, like we’d come out the back of a daemosaur. Wouldn’t even touch one, like it had been pissed on.”
Casey cast a quick, dark look at Odhran which stayed his voice. The beasts their people worshiped as deities, centuries ago had until recently been considered daemons by their religious leaders. Of course, the stigma remained, and Casey doubted it would ever be forgotten, but using the older names of these animals only inflamed the matter.
Even inside this army, the crossbowers, who all hailed from tribes whose ancestors had worshiped these beasts, were given a wide berth. As if heresy could be lurking under the surface.
“It’s a derogatory term,” Casey added.
“It’s what our ancestors called them. I won’t use any of these new names, given to us by people whose predecessors never worshiped them,” Odhran replied, firmly, though not without a respectful tone.
“The daemosaurs, our old deities, were mislabelled by our ancestors, and this caused us centuries of grief. They are the dark force which instilled reverential fear, moving the lackadaisical or weak in faith to do the Gods’ work. Our ancestors were wrong to see them as daemons with divine purpose.”
“A dark force? Not much of a line between what they are now, and what they were.” Odhran rolled his dark eyes but gave up the argument with a sigh. “Where do you want my lot?”
“Stay at the rear of the advance, and once we’re close to the walls, set about covering us.”
“We’ll clear the ramparts for you, get you over these walls – just save a Summiteer for me, sir, will you?”
“Don’t worry, Odhran, I remember my own.”
II
It took Evander a long time to get used to the idea of a good night’s sleep when he knew full well there would be an operation to undertake in the morning. But over the years his mind and body yielded to his desire to sleep.
Even so, the grim reality of the day’s work ahead brought with it a type of trepidation he had not felt since his first days in the regular army.
As the armies outside the small tavern mustered in defence, Evander took a moment to pray.
It was considered a transgression to treat any one God as greater than any of the others, and people would fret about praying more often to one than another. But as some of the Pastorals would remind people, each God held a different role, and some of these roles were more relevant to the livelihoods of people than others.
Personally, for Evander, Senphire and Wespar would get most of his attention. Both appealed to him as the former tamed the wild, uncontrollable aspects of nature, and the latter brought light into the world. As the untameable darkness of his mind sapped his spirit, praying to these two deities had greater appeal.
Evander’s approach to daily prayer was simple. Instead of speaking to each deity, one by one, Evander liked to keep his prayers short. And as he did every morning, spoke in a whisper the same prayer he had recited since he was eighteen.
“Whatever the right thing to do is, give me whatever I need to do it.”
III
The dawn was still mustering when a mass of Xellcarrian soldiers appeared on the horizon, north of the lighthouse.
Through the haze, silhouetted figures ran along the far edge of sight, miniscule. The easterly light winked and glimmered from platinum coloured armour, and well-maintained weapons and shields. There were no doubts in the minds of any Maytoni watching that thousands more were waiting behind this single line.
“No mounts,” Juliet spoke, whisps of breath attached to each word. She squinted harder into the distance. “No knights, yet.”
Evander concurred. For a moment he was brought back to the ear-stabbing moans of The Bloodied Talon’s own cat. “Can’t imagine knights wanting to clamber up our walls. Not in their heavy armour.”
They stood above the central portcullis in the north wall, between the large ornamental framework of the sculpted harps. Directly beneath them the entry way to the fort had been barricaded with whatever furniture and debris could be found, all skilfully placed by the local engineers and masons to create the most efficient blockage. The same had been carried out on the eastern and southern portcullises.
Behind Evander, arrayed in tight formation across the north field, were two thousand archers. More stood arrayed in lines upon the flat roofs of the numerous buildings at the far edge of the field.
At the first hint of a lump in the flat horizon the alarm had went up. Along the wall archers and siege infantry stood ready. Whilst the evening before the open camp area had been an impromptu archery field, it was now packed with rows of Maytoni archers ready to loose volley after volley over the wall and into the enemy ranks. Even the rooftops of the buildings behind the field were crammed with as many archers as feasibly possible. Sheild bearers clustered around the barricaded portcullis, ready to plug the gap. In the north quarter of the fort, two thousand five hundred archers stood by, whilst the remainder of soldiers and archers were dispatched to the east quarter to guard the gateway, and to the south.
Within the ranks stood humans, orks, and elves, though Evander had noted soldiers with siren or goblin ancestry based on physical characteristics. The siege infantry and shield bearers however held a larger contingents manticore, due to their broader, and taller size and greater strength.
Maytoni archers dressed light, with thick breeches or hose of a tree trunk brown – some with tree roots tied around shins and thighs through superstition. Specialist jambons were worn, missing the sleeve on the draw arm, revealing a leafy green silk tunic beneath. Each jambon was a light, golden brown. Line sergeants wore a beige quarter over the chest and bow shoulder to signify rank. Fur hats, fuzzy pelts of wolf, fox, mink, and badger sat on most archers’ heads.
Whilst tattoos did not hold any cultural significance in Maytoni, some archers had images of broadheads inked over their dominate eye, and others had the rear part of an arrow inked across a cheek. On the draw hand of some archers had tattoos of chains or thorns running down the finger groves where they held the string. Most however, had what was colloquially known as the archer’s mark; an indentation, or mark which ran down the tip of the nose and chin from years of practising archery. It was known too, that Maytoni citizens, due to their archery focused national service, had noticeably thicker index and middle fingers on their draw hand compared to their bow hand.
They gripped longbows, made of Maytoni yew, with jackalope horn limb tips. The leather grip would often be jackalope as well, however many preferred deer or fox-hide. Some archers had pheasant, pigeon, or gull feathers hanging from silk threads on the top limb tip of their bows for decoration and to gage the wind. And those who had already distinguished themselves in previous conflicts had feathers from broadhead hawks fitted into the bottom of their leather grips. Every archer carried a hip quiver, packed with arrows, along with a wicker barrel carried on their backs during travel, but staked into the ground in front of them, with countless more arrows.
Many of their quivers held personal decorations, images of the Gods or imagery associated with particular Gods. Some had shards of armour, taken from slain enemies, or even the finger and thumb bones of enemy archers. Evander missed personalising his own kit with items relative to his religion and culture, but as a Summiteer, most of the time he had to look anything but Maytoni.
Aside from the bow, their hip quiver of arrows, and their bushels of arrows set into the ground before them, Maytoni archers fielded axes, short spears, and long, narrow bladed daggers – specially designed for getting in between armour joints, and eye-slits.
“They’re not risking their knights, not while there are walls… Or a locked gate at the very least,” Evander reiterated, softly. The morning air tingled at his cheeks. He had made an issue of shaving the night before just in case he did fall in battle.
“They’re going to throw themselves at this wall, and try to get around and encircle us,” Juliet replied.
Lines of Xellcarrians marched forward, gleaming silvery steel and watery platinum coloured armour accentuating what little light there was thus far. These men-at-arms, male and female soldiers, professional war makers, were extremely well disciplined and all clamouring for knightly status. Evander had no doubt each and every one was desperate to be the first to climb the walls of the fort.
Their armour was light, but Evander knew it to be dense, which was why they had so many armour piercing arrows – more so than standard broadheads. Over the platinum colours were patters of jagged ruby red, shaped like the clawing feet of a bird of prey’, coming in from either side of the chest, with slate grey or onyx grey talons – the richer amongst them had pearl claws. Pauldrons were shaped like folded wing feathers, accented with gleaming white shades. From the back of each warrior, rose plumes of griffin feathers in all manner of colour combination known to birds of prey. Armour covering the thighs and lower legs had been sculped to resemble the texture of fur, with jet black accents for emphasis.
“There’s enough griffin feathers out there to keep our arrows fletched for a century,” Juliet said. “We’ll need to make sure there’s no looting.” She added, somewhat sourly.
“At least the Xellcarrians will pay well to have them returned,” Evander added.
“Like you’re going to ransom them.” Juliet knew him too well. Evander had no intention of taking any ransoms but would rather just return the feathers freely. He gave Juliet a wry grin.
Every Xellcarrian soldier held a tall, slightly curved shield upon which were family crests and insignias. Swords, straight double edges blades, were held in the other hand; dull steel running into a bronze coloured or dark steel beak set at the top of a black hilt, with either a cat’s paw, or a bird of prey’s talons at the base of the hilt.
“No spears, or pikes, or halberds, or anything lengthy,” Juliet observed. “They really do mean to get on this wall… Today.”
Whilst Evander tended to stay quieter towards oncoming difficulties, Juliet would get chattier. Though harmlessly so, only pointing out the obvious, as if any silence might inflame the tension felt before a battle.
Evander couldn’t see the ladders, but knew they were there, deep within the sea of watery steel. The landscape, normally barren, was now filling with Xellcarrian soldiers, their presence pulling in the openness and scope of the blank plains to make the world seem very, very small.
“What are we talkin’?” Evander began. “Open up at three hundred and thirty yards?”
“Yeah, play it safe. At what distance do you want the Gods’ Spear?” Juliet squeaked a few times as she tried to pluck the arrow from her hip quiver. She finally got it and nocked it to the string of her own longbow; Maytoni yew over Wetsven ash; sand over bronze. The limb tips were made from camel hoof, and glowed bronze, with a dark red maned wolf-leather grip, embossed with jagged patterns. She called it Forest Whisper.
“Four hundred, if you’d please,” Evander answered, nocking an arrow on his own longbow, Centuries’ Reach; Oakthei yew set over Mudhonnel ash, with red deer horn limb tips, and a leather grip made from crocodile skin. Protruding from the top and bottom of the grip were pairs of feathers, one a glossy dark blue rook feather, and the other a grey arc on white, a greater gull feather.
Commander Gaylord came by with his rockbark bow held close, and a firm, determined glare fixed under his brow. As he passed one manticore soldier, seven feet tall, with a pitch-black mane pouring out from under his helm, Gaylord clapped on the arm and said, “Wait till they see you, eh? We’ve got big cats of our own.” The manticore soldier cackled, cracking his axe against his wide chest armour.
Evander nodded as Gaylord approached. “General Dedrick still stuck behind his desk? I said his legs would atrophy if he didn’t use them,” he groaned. Evander stifled a moan of his own and decided to ignore the remark. This wasn’t the time. “Want to say anything to the lines?” Gaylord’s voice was as strong as the fabled wood of his longbow.
Despite being, for all intents and purposes, in charge, Evander didn’t wish to blow up his own image. “They’re your soldiers. They’ll respond better to your words,” was all Evander could think to say.
Gaylord nodded and turned to his archers, twenty feet beneath them, all staring upwards from the north field and across from the nearer building roofs – all two thousand five hundred of them spread out along the north field waiting patiently for orders.
“Right!” He roared with all the authority of a champion. “Let me make this clear! I hear or see one plucked string, and I’ll be down the brothel where your ma works to tell what a disgrace you’ve become!” The archers roared with deep, hearty laughter, strong enough to roll over the walls and up the plains towards the invaders.
Gaylord hoisted his magnificent bow into the air. “We wield tools of the Gods! Tools gifted to us! Archers! In your hands you hold divine power! Jalmeu plunged an arrow into the great sun, and from the impact formed Anordaithe! Our home. Senphire tamed the wilds of nature for us with Her bow. Tovorn split the wicked machinations of Wrath and Mercy with bow and arrow too. Our Gods gave us a divine tool which saw our people survive their exodus and journey to our home, here! With it our ancestors brought to heal armies and beasts of countless numbers. We humbled tyrants and moved whole herds of ferocious beasts from our paths. Seer Calix Saqqaf carved out a valley with a single arrow for our people when the path became too much! A single, arrow which carved through mountains. But it wasn’t our ancestors’ might and power. It was not done on through their strength, but through the strength of our Gods. It was our Gods, who reside here today! Our Gods who gave us the bow and trusted us with this wisdom! This-” Gaylord thrust his longbow into the air a few times, “This holds our faith, and the trust the Gods placed in us! In it is Their will, Their power, and Their protection over all of us this day!”
The archers and the soldiers on the wall roared, as if their own ancestors cheered through them. Evander was impressed, moved even.
Gaylord, perspiration rolling down his face, gave Evander a clasp on the shoulder as he moved past him. It was still up to Evander to give the final orders, the orders which would continue this lunacy. Of course, if the Gods’ Spear worked, the line archers and soldiers on the wall would have an easier day than they were anticipating. He stepped away from the edge of the walkway and looked back into the approaching wall of steal. Keeping his eyes fixed on the encroaching chaos, he said softly, “Alright. Do it, Jay.”
Juliet leant back, tilting at the waist as she pulled the string of her longbow whilst pushing the stave forward, bringing to bear her formidable back-muscles. She continued leaning back, bending her right leg at the knee to compensate. As soon as her right hand reached beyond her ear, Juliet’s fingers slipped deftly from the string. Barely a whisp came from the longbow, and Juliet remained frozen in the archer’s pose for a second after the arrow had cleared the bow.
As the projectile was quickly lost from sight however, Evander noted subtle, but sudden pulses of azure in the sky above, following along what would be the arrow’s line.
Somewhere in the distance, the arrow will have come down, its length semi-buried in the dirt.
“I’d say it’s now officially begun,” Juliet said, placing the lower limb of her longbow on her boot and watching the mass approach. “At least this is what the historians will probably consider the first action of the battle. Of course they won’t mention it was a Summiteer.”
“Nor should they,” Evander added.
He looked down the right of the wall and gave the thumbs up to Fiadh, then looked to the far-left tower and nodded to an unseen Bunny. None of the archers beneath the wall needed to see the enemy, only know the distance required to send their arrows, which Fiadh would be constantly relaying to them. Thought the most senior among the archers could even accurately discern the speed and distance covered by an advancing enemy with a high degree of accuracy, shooting blind essentially.
To keep the archers’ arrows covering the advance of the enemy, Fiadh would place bright red stakes into a row of guttering for every ten yards gained and the line-sergeants would announce to their individual lines to adjust when appropriate. As a result, the whole of the enemy advance could be covered in constant volleys, front rank to rearmost – in theory. It was hard to keep up with a charging mob, or mounted soldiers, but that was what the archers on the wall were for. For those archers, it was just a matter of shooting arrows at their discretion.
A thump, like thunder heard through water began to carry towards the wall. Evander leaned on a balustrade, watching intently. Blocks of shadows took on more detail, and the mob stretched out, from hundreds to a thousand, to a few thousand, to what Evander estimated to be around seven thousand. Near half their Men-at-Arms.
He looked down the wall to Fiadh and held up seven fingers. The youngest summiteer nodded in agreement. Fiadh had a talent for highly accurate estimates. Then Evander looked at the archers, the siege soldiers wearing tense, grim, or determined expressions. He took a deep breath, and decided he’d be damned if the march of Xellcarrians was going to be the ballad to open this battle.
“Soldiery!” He barked, looking both ways down the wall. “Who are we?”
“Maytoni!” They roared back.
“Say it again! Those,” he threw an arm out in the direction of the enemy. “Invaders didn’t hear you! Make them certain they know they’re making a mistake!”
“Maytoni! Maytoni! Maytoni!” The soldiers howled.
Cheers and cries rose up, forming a primal chanting, soldiers stomping boots to create a war anthem of their own.
The war anthem soared into a crescendo. Evander turned back to the tidal advance of Xellcarrians, the morning sun rolling in from the east at highlighting the colourations of the armour patterns in finer detail.
“They’re approaching the impact point,” Juliet said softly, her voice a near whisper as Evander’s ears rang with echoes of chanting. Whilst her voice was almost nonchalant, her eyes were hard, conveying the tension she was feeling, hoping her magical mischief would work. “This is normally Esther’s job. If she was here, if that was her arrow, I wouldn’t be so nervous about it.”
“It will work. Esther’s good, but we’re not so far behind her skills,” Evander replied, not taking his eyes off the advancing army. He did his best to look confident, composing himself in a casual manner as be leaned against a balustrade and looked to the thousands of figures clattering forwards, getting faster.
Then they stomped over the threshold of the Gods’ Spear, oblivious of course. In the sky over the advance danced pulsations of azure against the greyish blue sheet. Whilst the flares were subtle, there were now so many that it was impossible to miss this effect.
“Archers, nock!” Evander called out, to the sound of a couple of thousand clacks as arrows where drawn and nocked almost as one. The archers along the wall moved into a side-on pose, feet set shoulder’s length apart, backs straightened. Their thumbs caressed the strings of their shorter horn bows – bows no doubt with names of their own.
As the dull light show overhead seemed to represent the climax of the arrows magic, Juliet snarled. “Mercy’s sake! I’ve never worked harder on an arrow! We’ll just do it the old-fashioned way then.”
“Can’t disappoint the regulars, they did come all this way,” Evander added, nocking an arrow of his own.
A crack, like the sound of a whip meeting a rock wall, ripped over them. Then columns of brilliance, hot white and blue stabbed down from the clear sky with frightening ferocity. Evander, Juliet and everyone else along the north wall shot back in awe and fear. Within the speed of an eye blink each strike whipped down into the mass, dropping soldiers, even exploding them. Evander’s heart stalled at the horror and efficiency of it.
The advancing Xellcarrian mass broke, panic and terror washing over the soldiers as they were assailed by a torrent of furious lightning, men and women igniting suddenly, others seizing up. Whilst the front ranks could not move back due to the constant advance some decided to rush on, to try and escape the sudden trap. Soldiers dropped whip strikes out of the clear sky struck them. Others combusted and flailed manically, turned into stampeding furnaces for a second or two before their armour exploded. Steel shards and molten metal struck others, staggering and dropping more Xellcarrians; armour plating was pulverised, limbs severed, and soft spots torn open. In their hundreds the Xellcarrians fell.
Trapped within this tempest, with no choice but to advance, they charged. Attempts at war cries were drowned out by gargling, howling wails of aguish bursting out from those aflame, or those in the dirt, looking in shock at missing arms, legs, or the reels of guts pouring from cavities.
Despite the brightness of the morning in full effect, the jagged arcs snapped with such brilliance that the afterburn was seared into Evander’s eyes, blurring the scene in murky black, brown, and purple.
“Good mercy!” He found himself gasping aloud. Soldiers around him were doing their best to control their nerves, a few quivering, but some began vomiting.
“I think we just committed a war crime,” Juliet muttered, swallowing a hard lump.
“It’s not a war crime until there’s a law against it,” Evander said, in an attempt to pull himself together. The strikes were waning, dropping in frequency. Fewer and fewer soldiers were combusting or falling.
Finally, the tempest came to a stop. “Loose!” Evander roared, throwing as much vigour into his voice as possible to shake the soldiers – and himself – back into a sense of semblance.
From behind and bellow, the first wave of arrows soared as Fiadh relayed distances. A thick black murmuration washed over Evander. Thousands of arrows rising in a single sheaf, a single dark wave looking to meet its crescendo.
Bewildered Xellcarrians, lost and confused, clambering on, caught the shadow too late. The field was sparse with thousands of disorganised soldiers, stretching back into more coherent ranks. Those still holding shields brought them up, whilst others futilely covered their heads with their arms. All in vain. Maytoni armour piercing arrows, reinforced with dragon’s blood, punched through shields, and kept boring through into armour. Hundreds more Xellcarrians were pounded into the ground as their own shields were nailed into them. Those without shields jerked and flailed from the brutal impacts, already dead from dozens of stab wounds before hitting the ground.
Another wave went up, and Evander could see that the majority of the arrows loosed landed harmlessly in open ground between the still standing soldiers. He watched as the further ranks began to turn away and retreat – called back. He waved to Fiadh who signalled with a fist for the ground archers to hold off. “Wall archers only! Don’t waste the ordinance!” Evander called out.
With lines of sight, and no coherence to the remaining enemy, the wall archers targeted individuals, knocking them down swiftly. A beautiful whisper rose in the air as the archers loosed their arrows, almost as rapidly as the lightning strikes had been, and the remaining Xellcarrians, a couple of hundred were batted down effortlessly.
The attack was broken, Evander saw, his heart rising, and beating rapidly – beating hopefully. He was willing, begging internally, that the Gods would now end this lunacy.
Watery waves of platinum armour receded in haste. Winks of white and ruby red, and pearlescent colour faded away into the horizon, leaving behind the dead. A few thousand heaps of crumpled metal and flesh, scattered aimlessly before the approach to the fort. The further into the horizon Evander dared to look, the more these heaps moulded together into larger mounds from when the attack had begun with greater cohesion.
IV
“What in all of Anordaithe was that?” Ebrill sighed.
Evander had left Fiadh in charge of the wall, with Juliet checking on the other Summiteers. He was now stood in the large tavern; however, all of the tables and chairs had been enlisted as barricades. In their place soldiers had thrown down mats, satchels, and trunks.
A brazier had been set up in the centre of the den, with healthy, thick plumes of flame swirling. It was beautifully warm, Evander thought, and provided a subdued, homely feel to the place.
Commanders Gaylord and Xiphos were present, making the most of the flames, and giving the angry Pastoral some space.
“Strategically I think we call it a deterrent,” Evander ventured, verbally skirting Ebrill’s temper. He looked into the swirling flames, their slow dance soothing.
“When we came up here, you told me, you were glad we didn’t have to confiscate Alejandro’s phoenix arrows,” she hissed, referencing their recent excursion to The Mane to investigate, and if necessary, eliminate an individual known as The Phoenix Archer.
“What’s this now?” Xiphos cut in.
“I don’t think that’s something we should know about,” Gaylord added toward Xiphos with a quick awkward look.
Evander ignored them, throwing up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, this was not nearly the same. Not even close to that power.”
Ebrill’s scowl was still unconvinced.
“In Alejandro’s own words, he obliterated eight thousand Dytrentians. We didn’t come close to that. And there are no residual effects from the arrow either. And there are no residual effects from the arrow either. How long do you think that wrathful fire lingers, or how long do you think it would be before animal life feels safe to return to the region, or plant life can grow again?”
A true humanitarian, Ebrill had immediately ordered Maytoni soldiers in the wake of the battle to bring in any wounded for treatment.
There were no survivors it had turned out.
“Still, is your idea of de-escalation, more violence? How typical, Evey,” she snapped and turned away, stepping around the perimeter of the brazier.
They were on either end of the Maytoni spectrum, two necessities to the country’s survival, but wholly different from one and other. The outreaching hands of Maytoni, one for aid, the other holding dagger.
“It did throw back far more Xellcarrians than it killed,” Gaylord added.
“And what would you suggest, Ebrill?” Evander said softly. He had yet to allow his gut to recoil at the horror of the number of Xellcarrian dead, or his mind fracture at the sight – holding it all for later when it wouldn’t affect his ability to lead. “Thirty thousand, at least ten thousand knights, and three, Ebrill, three Godheads. They are here for blood, to cripple Maytoni in some capacity. It’s hateful for so many reasons, but whatever they have planned, we have to make the shame of retreat look more desirable.”
“Shame in retreat… So egotistical. How anyone can let their pride drown out personal decency is just beyond me,” Ebrill growled. She looked at Evander through the wavering fire, her soft, youthful features underscored by harsh gold light.
“Tell me about it. No one likes walking away from a fight, especially if they believe they’re the ones slighted,” Xiphos said.
“To them it would be shame,” Evander continued. “They’re here to avenge the slaying of a celestial after all. Religious fury is one of the hardest ideals to break – you said as much yourself. You’d have an easier time shattering a diamond by stomping on it. I hate it, but chances are, the only way the Xellcarrians will withdraw now is due to heavy losses. We could slay a Godhead, go on a suicide raid to get one, and that would only make them more determined to steal the peninsula.”
“There’s never been any friction between us and Xellcarr. Nothing. Everyone knew the rules. If you were hunting griffin, you didn’t do it inside Xellcarr, or within sight of them, I suppose.”
“Of course. Otherwise Xellcarr would be at war with everyone,” Evander said, smirking.
“Then, out of nowhere, this. War. Actual, war. And as bad as it’s been, it’s only going to get worse. They can launch themselves against us, we can shoot them down with our arrows, and this can go on forever. Xellcarr is all mountains. We could never take an army across the border.”
“And the griffins, too. An army in any valley would be taken apart, with no room to manoeuvre, or for siege weapons,” Evander added, moving around the flames to Ebrill’s side.
She was silent for a moment, staring into a void, seeing only what those of a higher spiritual intellect could see.
“We’re all being tested here,” Ebrill continued, more strength behind her tone. “I don’t know, why or what, or anything like that, but let’s keep faith in the Gods that they knew this was coming and that they will make something of it.” Her tone of voice was a contrast to the words. “Okay, I’m going to minister to… Whoever needs it. I’ll find you later. I’m not wallowing here in self-pity. And I know your lot get rowdy if you’re not there to shout at them, commander,” she said to Xiphos.
Before leaving the tavern Evander and Ebrill embraced. His gut lurched as he thought about going back to the wall.
As Evander was about to go his own way, Gaylord stopped him. Xiphos was chatting with Ebrill as she moved off towards the north fields.
“So how did a Summiteer and a Pastoral become such close friends?” Gay enquired, only curious.
“It was so long ago, I can’t really remember,” Evander lied.
“Sergeant, may I speak, candidly?”
Evander knew he’d never get used to a superior asking him for anything and detested that this only reminded him of his obligations here. “Yes, of course, Gay. You’ve been at this far longer than I have.”
“Don’t give me that, Evey. You’re in charge, and I’m happy it isn’t me.” He paused. “This is now the opening of a war. How long this war lasts, isn’t up to us – at least that’s what I think. It’s a bitter, sour, slab of rotting fish to swallow, but up there in the north, those are not Xellcarrians. They are the enemy. We can’t repulse six-to-one-odds if we’re still thinking of the invaders as past allies.”
Evander broke off eye contact and looked high into the open sky.
The crows had come and were scattered across the dull sky canvas in their hundreds. There was the high-pitched squeak from jackdaws, the honking caw from ravens, the rusty belligerence from magpies, and the classic caw from rooks and hooded crows.
“Ugly words. Ugly, hard to hear, and true,” Evander replied, finally looking back at the senior commander.
They nodded to one and other, clasped shoulders, and then went on their separate ways.
Evander began to make his way back to the wall. Troops were still on guard, however many of the ground archers were sitting, playing dice or card games, or seeing to their equipment, awaiting another call.
Various soldiers nodded to him, a few rose as he passed, and he waved them down. He returned greetings and told them how well they had all preformed – despite only getting to loose relatively few arrows. But their nerve had held up, their arrows had been on target, and Evander joked that he “didn’t hear a single string plucked.” Causally he would stop every now and then to inspect someone’s bow, or their arrows if they caught his eye, and chat with a group on various bow making or arrow smithing techniques.
Faces varied among the different species, from baby-faced new recruits to men and women pushing their mid-fifties, from seamless to haggard, clean shaved to bearded, bare to scared. They were pale skinned, flushed, ruddy, tanned, brown, and black. They were the diverse embodiment of the Maytoni exodus, of the people and tribes that had fused together to become what was modern Maytoni.
Names, like many societies, held job roles held by ancestors, but in Maytoni with archery having been so prevalent in their history, the most common surname was in fact Archer. Bowman, Bowyer, Arrowsmith, and Fletcher followed in terms of commonness, with other variations such as Forester, Hunter, Forest, Woods, and Hardwood. Evander recalled a census in which at least half of all modern Maytoni had surnames relating to archery in some manner.
It put a bit of life into his spirit and assuaged the surrealist atmosphere. The soldiers seemed to be holding up.
Then a voice cried out, stealing his attention. From the wall a solider cried out, “Rider!” Then Fiadh was at the edge shouting down to Evander.
“Did you dispatch a rider to leave the fort?” She shouted from above him.
Evander had assumed that when the cry of rider went up, it was because the Xellcarrians were sending someone to the fort… And then it struck him, like a lightning bolt.
